


What's In A Name

by Fenix21



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s10e03 Soul Survivor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 01:07:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3190070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenix21/pseuds/Fenix21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sammy…</p>
<p>Dean gagged a little even thinking the name. He’d turned it to poison. The endearment that had translated and communicated a thousand emotions with just one word when Dean had nothing else to give was now a curse. A blackened memory tarnished with fear and loathing and hatred.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's In A Name

Dean should have seen it. 

Sure, he’d been on Demon Street for the last couple of months, but that was no excuse. Sam was Sam. He wasn’t going to change that much over such a short period of time, and yet, Dean utterly failed to read the signs that were so clearly telegraphing his brother’s pain.

“Hey, Sammy. Wanna cup of coffee?” Dean would ask.

_Tightening of skin around Sam’s eyes. Flash of fear in the hazel depths. Mouth drawn in a thin line_.

“How’s your arm, Sammy? What did you say happened again?” Dean would say, trying to make conversation.

_Visible flinch. Sam pulling his injured right arm close to his body and unconsciously cradling it in his left. Shielding himself_.

“Love you, Sammy. You know that…right?” Dean would whisper in to the dark.

_Fully body shudder, and Sam sucking in his stomach muscles where Dean’s hand reached around to rest as they lay spooned together in bed_.

Sammy?

Yeah, he definitely should have seen it sooner.

——

The sun was high overhead and a warm breeze blew through the four open doors of the Impala, airing out the smell of stale food and beer, while Sam and Dean both went over the interior with leather conditioner and glass cleaner.

Sam thought Castiel’s suggestion of some time off was a good idea, so Dean had reluctantly agreed and they decided to head north to some no-name lake and enjoy the outdoors for a while. But before they could go anywhere, their ride needed some much deserved TLC.

“Aww, baby, what did I do to you?” Dean crooned as he caressed the dash with a soft cloth.

“You said she was ‘just a car,’” Sam smirked from the passenger side. His foot was on the running board, propping open the door while he excavated the glove box which had apparently seconded as a trash bin to see if there was anything in need of salvaging.

“Shh! She’ll hear you,” Dean hissed. He shook his head. “Jesus, Sammy, what was I thinking?”

There was a long pause from the other side of the car. Too long. 

“Sammy?”

And there it was. Sam’s whole body sucking in, shrinking back; muscles bunching and shifting, bracing for a blow that wasn’t coming.

Dean twisted in the seat, hand curling around the steering wheel. “Sammy—.”

“Don’t!”

Sam’s voice was a ruined whisper. He let out a single, rattling breath and then collapsed in on himself like the side of a mountain giving way to too much rain and wind and the force of gravity, crumbling in a heap of jagged sobs in the seat next to Dean.

Dean’s hand tightened on the steering wheel until the plastic creaked. He dropped the cleaning cloth and put a hand out, reaching for Sam’s shoulder.

“Jesus. Sammy, what’s wrong?”

Sam’s whole body jerked. In response to Dean’s impending touch or his words, Dean wasn’t sure which, but he scrambled from the passenger seat, launching himself out of the Impala and toward the bunker before Dean could say another word.

Dean stared after Sam, brows drawn. Sam had always had a flare for the dramatic. It showed up in his formative years as overblown temper tantrums and evolved into angst ridden pout sessions in his early teens that then graduated to more finely honed glares, nostril flares and pointed huffs of air blown into his floppy bangs. This, though, wasn’t drama. This was pain; stark, honest, and real. 

Something Dean was doing was hurting Sam. 

He turned back front and wrapped both hands around the steering wheel, rubbing his thumbs against the worn plastic under-curve at the top. He struggled to replay his actions, analyzing his every expression, homing in on the tone of his voice when he spoke. Sam had always been more sensitive to the ‘how’ something was said than the ‘what’ that actually got put into words. 

Dean thought he’d been careful. He tried anyway. He’d said some awful things when he was a demon. He knew that. Sam had made a point to forgive him all that before Dean could get an apology in edgewise, though. Dean wasn’t stupid enough to believe that the slate just got wiped clean, or that Sam wouldn’t be hearing the echo of those words for a long time to come, but he did know that when Sam issued a pardon, he meant it.

Still. Something was—.

_Let me ask you this, Sammy…if this doesn’t work, we both know what you gotta do to me, right? You got the stomach for that?_

Dean’s fists locked around the steering wheel.

_Come on, Sammy! Don’t you want to hang out with your big brother? Spend a little quality time?_

Acid burned at the back of his throat.

_Sammy! Just makin’ this worse for yourself, man._

He gagged on the surge of bile.

_Sammy? Come on, Sammy!_

Sammy. Sammy. Sammy.

Dean spun in the seat, doubled over, and retched into the dry dirt.

His left hand clawed the Impala’s doorframe, trying to keep him from tumbling to the ground as the sick, dizzying sense memory of a hammer in his hand and evil power singing through his veins as he swung it at Sam’s head waved over him. He gagged and retched again, the cruel echoes of his own taunting voice baiting his little brother crashing around in his skull.

When there was nothing left to bring up, he spit into the dirt and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. He lowered his feet to the ground, kicked dry dust over the acrid pool of spit and vomit, and shoved his clammy hands through his hair. They were shaking, and it was from more than just the post-sick adrenaline rush.

“Fuck.”

Dean shoved himself unsteadily to his feet, bracing himself between the door and roof of the car.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he pressed a cupped hand to his mouth for a moment, holding his breath against a sudden sob. 

Christ! What had he done? How could he have been such a bastard? And a fool!

Sammy…

Dean gagged a little even thinking the name. He’d turned it to poison. The endearment that had translated and communicated a thousand emotions with just one word when Dean had nothing else to give was now a curse. A blackened memory tarnished with fear and loathing and hatred.

He stumbled toward the bunker, leaving the Impala wide open and not even caring.

Sam was nowhere to be found inside. Dean checked the kitchen, the library, Sam’s spartan bedroom, wanting to call his name but afraid now to even utter the single syllable for what it might be doing to Sam’s insides.

Jesus! Dean cursed and slammed a fist into the concrete wall as he traversed another hallway in search of his brother. How could he have been so damn stupid and so blind?

The door to Dean’s room was cracked and he half expected Sam to be hunched on the edge of the bed when he swung the door wide, but he wasn’t there. The sling was. It had been unclipped and was lying on the bed beside a slight wrinkle in the blanket that said Sam had been sitting there just a few minutes ago. Dean turned around and went further down the hall toward the bathroom.

Sam was standing in front of one of the big wall mirrors by the sinks with his shirt mostly unbuttoned and slid halfway down his right arm. He was staring into the mirror, two fingers of his left hand prodding lightly at the mass of faded bruising that stretched from beneath his collar bone down around his side under his arm and up over his shoulder. But that wasn’t the worst part. 

Dean’s stomach turned over at the sight of the long, angry scar that still bore the tiny pin marks of more staples than he was able to count at this distance. He couldn’t help the half choked sound that came out of his throat and drew Sam’s eyes to his in the mirror.

Sam stared at him for a moment, unmoving. So far, he had been very careful to keep his clothes on around Dean. Even though they were sleeping together again, Sam was always in his t-shirt and sleep pants, and they hadn’t done… _that_ , yet, so Dean hadn’t had any opportunity to see Sam naked.

“I didn’t…did I?” Dean asked in a wrecked whisper.

He remembered most of what he did as a demon, but it was splotchy and disjointed, like a whole string of photographs caught in a strobe light so that he only got to see them for a second at a time and never the whole picture together. He didn’t remember hurting Sam like that, though. Other ways, apparently, yes, but not like that.

Sam gave a quick shake of his head, hand going to pull his shirt back up. “No, no you didn’t do this.”

Dean came across the bathroom in a quick stride and took hold of Sam’s hand before he could do up his buttons. “But I wasn’t there to stop it.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that,” Sam said, trying to turn his hand out of Dean’s grip, but Dean wouldn’t let go. What was even more disconcerting than the collage of bruises and the awful, jagged scar that wrapped from the top of Sam’s shoulder down and around his shoulder blade, was the shadows between his ribs.

No wonder he kept his clothes on all the time.

Dean pressed Sam’s hand aside and carefully undid the rest of the buttons on Sam’s flannel, pushing it back so that he could see how his brother’s stomach was hollowed out and caved in under his ribcage, how his jeans just barely clung to his hipbones, riding down low enough that Dean could see the shadowed hollows of them, too.

“Jesus Christ, Samm—.” Sam flinched hard and Dean swore at himself, breathed out slowly, and said very carefully, “Sam.”

Sam’s eyes flickered up. They were raw and red and his bottom lip was quivering just the littlest bit. Dean cupped the sharp bone’s of his bother’s hips in his palms and just stood there, staring at him and shaking his head.

“I didn’t— Why didn’t you—?” Dean couldn’t find any words, at least not any that wouldn’t sound accusing. Sam had obviously not been taking care of himself, at least not in the staying-fed-regularly department. But then what had Dean expected? Did he think that while he was out on a killing spree playing BFFs with Crowley, having left Sam with no more than four words of chicken scratch on a scrap of paper to hang the rest of his life on, that Sam was just lounging here in the bunker making sure he got three squares a day?

Sam’s hand was suddenly cupping Dean’s jaw, and Dean was turning into it, pressing his cheek into his little brother’s broad palm, shutting his eyes against the hot pressure of tears behind his eyes.

“It’s okay, Dean.”

“No.” Dean’s voice was wrecked. “No, it’s not okay. Samm— _Damn it!_ Sam…I did this to you. I shattered your shoulder sure as if I’d thrown you across the room myself because I wasn’t there to look after you. You’re half starved and nothing by skin and bone because you were spending every waking moment looking for my stupid ass so you could try and save it! And now…! Now,” Dean dropped the full weight of his head into Sam’s hand, “I can’t even say your name without sending you into some post-traumatic fit.”

“Dean, I—.”

“No, don’t say you’re sorry. Because you have nothing to be sorry for,” Dean insisted. “I did this. It was all me. But, _damn it_ , Sam…I don’t know how to fix it!”

Dean tried to pull back, tried to drop his hands from Sam’s hips and turn away, but Sam grabbed him hard, yanking him in and holding him with his one good arm; and for all the muscle mass Sam had lost, there was still an amazing amount of strength in that arm. Dean felt the warm press of Sam’s lips at his temple. 

“We’ll find a way, Dean. We will,” he promised. “Because I’m never giving up on you. Never.”

Dean nodded and let himself sag against Sam. Arms snaking back under his shirt and enveloping his too thin frame, he let his head fall to rest in the crook of Sam’s neck. 

“‘Cause you never give up on family.”


End file.
